


The Elenctic Method

by rabbitprint



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen, Mind Control, Second person POV
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-26
Updated: 2021-02-26
Packaged: 2021-03-17 04:08:52
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,814
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29711415
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabbitprint/pseuds/rabbitprint
Summary: Set before the Final Days to just before the Sundering, spoilers through 5.3 MSQ. Second person POV, Azem."Come back," he tells you. His voice is strained, but his mouth is very soft, and very sad. "The discussion is long over by now. Lord Zodiark lives, as does our star. There is no more benefit in arguing over what is, by now, a mere discussion of technique. We are keeping the seat open for you. Do not torment yourself further with needless dissent.""I will not, Emet-Selch." You cannot meet his gaze without temptation weakening you, and so you turn away entirely, as if the man is composed of no more substance than one of his own fables. "In the end, dissent may be our only saving grace."
Relationships: Azem & Emet-Selch (Final Fantasy XIV), Azem & Venat (Final Fantasy XIV)
Comments: 2
Kudos: 35





	The Elenctic Method

**Author's Note:**

> _Originally drafted before 5.3, MSQ, but still works anyway._

It is a parade of gifts when you are elevated.  
  
The formal office of Azem is presented to you as an empty shell, a barren white wasteland interrupted only by the fundamentals: a desk, tables, chairs. Windows. The shelves are all stripped bare. It is a room with four walls waiting to be painted upon, but lacking any indication of acceptable guidelines to follow. Only one of the tables has anything approaching substance: twelve bundles neatly wrapped in black cloth, already conjured from concepts and waiting to be revealed.  
  
The void comes from respect rather than rudeness. It is not that your coworkers wish to estrange you. Though you will spend precious little time in Amaurot itself -- off to travel the star, to thrill in all its many wonders -- this office remains yours to decorate. As the newest Convocation member, you have more than enough talent to fill the room with wonders bound only by sheer whimsy -- and so the blankness stands not for emptiness, but for infinity.  
  
Nothing is definite, save for the stack of presents set aside neatly for you to uncover.  
  
The gifts reveal themselves one by one as you unpack them, their forms already complete so that you can understand them first through their creators' eyes, before your own perceptions might skew an interpretation of the concepts. Each is another tool for your office -- both the physical one, and your rank. Some are practical. There is a crystal storage rack from Emmerololth, which retains six elementally-charged slivers safely humming together without sparking a proximity-based explosion. Igeyorhm's stasis cube, drawing upon polarized aether to slow down decay of its contents, allowing for more precise study of organic materials. Halmarut's map of some of the more obscure constellations: difficult to spot when immersed in the luminous aether of a city, but invaluable once you are afield.   
  
Some -- like Lahabrea's chandelier, which launches into full-scale operas at the first touch of the sunrise -- are not.  
  
Mitron gives you a fish.   
  
Of course.  
  
Instead of a boon, Emet-Selch tells you stories while you are trying to learn your way around the inner workings of each Bureau, permitted past every restriction that has blocked you in the past. By being granted your title -- thanks to people assuming you automatically _know_ what you are doing now -- you have also been given access into every aspect of Amaurot imaginable.   
  
The degree of faith is terrifying.   
  
Such knowledge will come naturally after a few centuries. But until then, you must learn by experiencing each floor of every building which was off-limits before, like returning to childhood lessons where you memorized how to craft bones before skin, and tissue before muscles. You avail yourself of every scrap of advice that the other Convocation members provide, heeding their advice like waysigns. They are your peers, your fellows; their successes and failures hinge upon your own, contributing to Amaurot together. Before you can even think to explore the rest of the star, you must first prove you are fit to be a Traveler: to demonstrate that you can map a path towards the future in the city's stones, and never fear a mystery.  
  
Trusting in your own instincts, you wind your way through corridor after corridor, while Emet-Selch -- the man who _should_ have been your guide -- merely wanders at your heels, his voice leading you deeper into fantasy as he whispers stories instead of compass calls.   
  
Despite yourself, you hang onto his voice: the only familiar sound in a world of uncertainties, where every hallway looks the same and all the corridors are identical. Together, you walk through ancient libraries where even the concept matrices themselves have forgotten their own contents. You listen as Hades weaves tales of lost loves and forbidden dreams, and you descend deeper into the unknown, trusting him to lead you out again into the light.

* * *

Loghrif gives you an ornamental blanket she wove with her own hands twice-over: once when she spun the thread from aether, and again when she used her personal loom to pattern the final making, rather than shape a final result directly from her imagination. The concentration required for such work is like comparing a puddle to the ocean. Days upon days of work are needed in preparation, all without losing focus and allowing the aether to go astray. Each thread must be arranged by deliberate choice, remaining aware of every placement's consequences, no matter how small.  
  
You are speechless as you accept the blanket from her, and she smiles at that simple gratitude.  
  
When you finally touch the fabric to judge its texture, a single note chimes forth, echoing through the room. As you drag your hand horizontally across the banded patterns, every string resonates with the same harmonics Loghrif sang as she worked, infusing each pass of the shuttle with her wishes for your future. The blanket sings back to you now, as clear as if you were plucking each thread like a harp: a sheet of music encrypted in color, woven from spiderwebs of aether which have been drawn forth from the earth and all its bounty under Gaia's command.  
  
You spread the blanket out upon your desk and trace your fingers along it, drawing squares and circles and waves. Beneath your hands, Loghrif's voice skips from verse to verse, songs rippling through endless choruses, their lyrics interlacing.   
  
You cannot bring the blanket with you on your journeys -- there is too great a risk of allowing it to become damaged -- but you touch it whenever you return to Amaurot, welcomed back each time by the encouragement of Loghrif's hopes whenever you are called home.

* * *

You don't quite understand the purpose behind Emet-Selch's ramblings until it connects one day like two halves of a bridge lining up, melding together in seamless formation.  
  
The hodgepodge rampage of Emet-Selch's tales have haunted your explorations without cease, peppering your thoughts for weeks afterwards with his stories instead of proper diagrams. He distracts you beyond all self-control, until it is _his_ imagination which comes forth from your fingers each time to bend your will towards creation: birds with pyramid beaks that split open into thirds, children turning into trees, lion-headed horses that gallop across the endless plains. They are _his_ dreams.  
  
With an effort, you steer yourself back each time your designs go awry, dispersing the energies and remaking them into proper tools. Your skills at creation magicks are hardly subpar. All your life, you have watched aether eddy endlessly around you, an eternal sea of color as innate to your survival as air itself, as the water feeding the blood in your veins, the tissues of your body. As the newest Azem, your first act must be to define yourself in your inherited role -- to create _yourself_ , a joint interpretation from what you and the rest of Amaurot understand the creature of _Azem_ to be -- and you refuse to let anyone else influence you first.  
  
The next time you sense Emet-Selch's presence near you as you are descending through a concept library, you take the battle to him.   
  
"You're skewing my subconscious, aren't you." Your accusation launches itself towards him as a maze of shelves towers overhead. You have been roundly lost within them for the better part of a bell; ichthyology was never your forte. Crystals glimmer around you, your face refracted on every one. "By the _stars_ , what am I going to create for the opening ceremonies now? They'll ask for a speech, and I'll summon singing dolphins instead, turning flips through hoops of flaming kelp."  
  
No answer comes. You turn and turn, hoping to spot him, and only by chance do you catch the flicker of his lean cheekbones reflected along a pillar.  
  
Emet-Selch has his mask off, which is the only reason you catch his arched eyebrows. The self-satisfied quirk of his lips, however, would have been betrayal enough of his mischief. "You are the newest," he rationalizes, trying to sound reasonable about it instead of overweeningly smug. "Consider this a sign of my respect for your capacities."  
  
"And _is_ it?"   
  
His smile only widens further. "I suppose we shall see."

* * *

It is too soon when the Final Days come. They involve more than simply a termination of the flesh. You are an Amaurotine; you have seen things end before. Immortality teaches every Ascian about death very early, for death is what happens to things around you -- to other things, _mortal_ things -- and it is an immortal's responsibility to come to terms with living through it. Every Ascian is privileged to see what comes after the end of life. Yours is the duty to witness the renewals which death empowers: the fresh plants rising through burned soil, the insects skittering over hurricane debris. One gift leads to the next.  
  
But the way that death comes for your people now is new -- it is new, and it is _wrong_ , arriving not as part of a deliberate process for the star, but a ravaging which takes and takes and gives nothing back. There is no natural cause. There will be no restoration. There is purpose to be found in a controlled burn -- but if the entire forest ignites, and all life within it is destroyed past any chance of regrowth, then nothing is achieved. Only ruin.  
  
You cannot bear the thought of it, even as you cannot bear the suggestion to let even more of your people die, no matter how powerful a concept their pooled aether might summon -- and particularly not when it would leave their souls trapped as perpetual sacrifices, never to be reborn for all eternity.  
  
There must be a better way. You simply have not found it yet.  
  
It has been centuries since you were the newest member of the Convocation. In that time, you have been replaced naturally by the latest Elidibus, so fresh to your ranks. He is the Emissary; his is the natural role of playing the other side in every debate, a strategic and long-honored position by which every discussion is strengthened.  
  
Elidibus owns the right of the dissenter. You are merely Azem, the Traveler, the voice of expertise when it comes to the rest of the star -- but you resist at every table the Convocation meets at, some deep part of your soul balking instinctively at the suggestion of crafting a god. Such outcomes have played themselves out before, in lands far away from Amaurot. Weaker races have had to surrender many times over to powers greater than themselves -- as the Ascians have not, assuming that any power they create will be naturally imbued with the same equal fairness as all of your kind.   
  
But _you_ have seen this pattern before, again and again, played out among the younger creatures of your star. Ones who have been placed at a disadvantage to hungrier predators, forced to grovel and hope.  
  
Only on the rarest occasions has it ever worked out well for them.  
  
Even though you are no longer the newest member of the Convocation, you demand to be the elected voice of opposition. Elidibus is too uncertain, and you are too passionate to allow him to intervene. It is your turn to refuse an easy acceptance of this new idea, insisting on detailed explanations from your peers so that they can be certain what they ask for is what they truly _want_. You hold your ground ceaselessly, denying and decrying the construct they are already calling, _Zodiark_.  
  
It is a rushed defense; despite your best efforts. You are only one voice against thirteen others in unity, and you have never presented your defiance against them before. Not like this. Not when it _matters_. Lahabrea alone could have bested you. Now you must convince them _all_ , somehow: Fandaniel with his impishness, Mitron with her way of looking at everything from uncommon angles, as if she were a fish examining the world through a concave meniscus of water. Igeyorhm's determination. Pashtarot, twisting hypotheticals to extremes. They are all your dearest friends, and your worst opponents.   
  
You ask them _why_ over and over; you challenge and dig out hidden hypocrisies in beliefs, contradictions which lurk in the corners of every assumption, all in hopes of exposing logical flaws so they can be properly corrected. You ask what is necessary, and what dictates where the lines of necessity should be drawn. You ask, and do not stop asking.  
  
For each of your questions, the Convocation has an answer. You cannot blockade them all. When they counterattack, requesting reasonable alternatives, you falter. All of your worthwhile ideas have already been flung forth before. All of them failed on the drafting board. Nowhere in your sketches is there a better design for stopping the flames which are tearing open the sky half a world away, and are steadily advancing towards your side.   
  
Instead, frantically, you find yourself resorting to defenses built on emotion rather than logic. After that, the only argument you can give your peers is to ignore the debate altogether, insisting on more time because you refuse to be there to listen to them at all.  
  
Your demand for recess is illustrated in the form of your absence. You will not stand with your own allies, stepping down from your seat and _daring_ them to fill it in your absence as you excuse yourself to beg for more answers from your star.

* * *

Your kin across the waters stop answering.  
  
You wait for their words -- any methods they have found for stemming the tide, for regrouping and defending their shores -- and only silence returns when you call.

* * *

The summoning of Zodiark happens while you are away from the Convocation's offices.  
  
By the time you hear the news -- when you _feel_ it, the world buckling beneath a new standard, the raw aether of dynamic creation bending itself towards fresh ownership -- you can already guess what has transpired. The glistening firestorms that coated the sky are slowly dwindling down, their funnels collapsing inwards. The air has turned clear again. On every street, conjured monsters shriek in bloodless agony, crumbling upon themselves and dissolving harmlessly away.  
  
Around you, your fellow citizens cry out in relief, weeping as they sink to their knees and clutch at one another, trying to convince themselves that the nightmare is finally ended.  
  
But as for you -- the only thing you feel is not relief at all. It is a single dread, singing through every nerve in your body: _they had not waited after all_.

* * *

On some level, you understand why the Convocation had not delayed. You had no solutions to offer them. Only death. The longer that you demanded that they wait, the more of your brethren perished. Every hesitation was paid for not merely in Ascian lives, but with every ecosystem which burned alive. All those souls who had been lost in fear and suffering, watching as doom after doom claimed the cities of your star -- they are gone now, all because you had not been able to present a trustworthy counterdesign. The rough blueprints you had spread upon the debate floor were hollow skeletons, demanding that others die in terror simply so you may be granted more time to think.   
  
All because you had not agreed quickly enough, because _you_ had not presented an alternative worth swaying the course: this happened because _of you_.  
  
Their lives are your forfeit.   
  
And yet, you cannot say you were wrong to protest. Zodiark's concept was hastily drawn, and did not pass the thorough processes of testing and approval normally required by the Bureau of the Architect. All his flaws were pushed through into reality without appropriate safeguards, and then further aggravated by the status of his summoners. None of them could have been in the proper mindset to conjure even a simple plate properly. Whatever dwells in a creator's mind becomes embedded in their concept's form; you shudder to think of what fears had been carried like parasites upon the Convocation's shoulders as they had assembled for their ghastly task, fresh waves of screaming still resonating from every stone around them.  
  
Building a tool which can limit its creators' powers is a risky thing. With something as complex and unprecedented as a god, there must be documentation on how to properly use it -- and _stop_ it, if need be. Anything else is suicide. Even though it is far too late to protest Zodiark's existence, you cannot find it within yourself to agree with the wisdom of allowing this new creation to rule. Not without the ability to safely limit him.  
  
Your positions have always been known, even when you were a mere student in the Akadaemias; you are no different in your principles now.   
  
And now that Zodiark has settled into dominance at the apex of Ascian civilization, and Venat raises their voice in protest -- noting the concerns which you have already seen, and shouting them to whoever dares listen -- you know that every fresh soul lost is accountable to the same cause. Every death is another layer of guilt to coat your idle hands.

* * *

Eventually, Emet-Selch finds you in the same research halls as he has a thousand times before, wandering sullen and frustrated in your powerlessness. Even though you refuse to be recognized as a member of the Convocation, Amaurot has not yet revoked your access, dangling the possibility of reconciliation with a patience that almost makes you want to break down and run back into their arms simply so that your people will not have to spend their efforts upon you. Not when they should be saving all their energy for themselves. Zodiark is merely a stopgap. It is only a matter of time before the world breaks itself open once more, and the only uncertainty is where exactly the next apocalypse will come from.  
  
Mired in your failure, you turn a corner in the basements, and suddenly Emet-Selch is there,   
  
The man is leaning casually against one of the storage racks, his hands steepled downwards before him, each finger splayed and balanced perfectly against its mate. It is entirely possible that he has been there for several bells, waiting for you to work your way down slowly through the shelves; it would not be unlike him to tolerate discomfort for the sake of drama.   
  
"Still being stubborn, Azem?" His sigh is an ocean of disappointment, and each current bears your name. "Won't you return to your seat?"  
  
"No." You think about walking past him, but you cannot bear the thought of ignoring him either, not when you have not spoken to him in weeks. You have missed him. You have missed them all. "I... heard about Elidibus."  
  
Emet-Selch's head lowers. "Yes."  
  
"Will you --" The words clog in your throat, like lumps of dough too large to swallow. It is a painful question, but it would be far worse if it did not hurt at all. "Will his seat be filled?"  
  
The last of Emet-Selch's elegant performance drains away, leaving only a very tired man behind. His shoulders slump, their strings cut. "I suppose that it is no longer up to us," he admits softly. "Lord Zodiark will be the one to decide."  
  
You bristle at the god's audacity: it is not _Zodiark's_ decision to make. But to condemn the choice directly would mock what Elidibus has given his life to, and -- by extension -- Elidibus himself. "Will Zodiark choose to replace me as well?"  
  
Grief drags at Emet-Selch's body even as it roars in yours. He finally reaches up to dissolve his mask with an absent touch of his fingers, scattering the aether back into his robe.   
  
"Come back," he tells you. His voice is strained, but his mouth is very soft, and very sad. "The discussion is long over by now. Lord Zodiark lives, as does our star. There is no more benefit in arguing over what is, by now, a mere discussion of technique. We are keeping the seat open for you. Do not torment yourself further with needless dissent."  
  
The offer is a powerful one. It needs nothing other than itself to seduce you. If there is no salvation to be found, then at least you can die embraced in the arms of your loved ones, insensate to your former ideals. The idea of leaving a proper legacy for the seat of Azem is incidental now: you stand as the latest in a long, long chain of those who have worn your name, and now you may well be the last.  
  
"I will not, Emet-Selch." You cannot meet his gaze without temptation weakening you, and so you turn away entirely, as if the man is composed of no more substance than one of his own fables. "In the end, dissent may be our only saving grace."

* * *

One by one, you watch the consequences of your indecision take a further toll upon your people. It is not enough for Zodiark that he exists. Now, he must have even more souls for his collection before he is able to restore vitality to the star. Hundreds. Thousands. Half the star, a second time.  
  
There is no choice about it. The Convocation sends out the call for those willing to offer their souls, and this time, they do not ask you to debate.  
  
You slink into the central offices anyway, while your peers are out speaking quietly with the volunteers and working to record their names and histories so their lives are not entirely lost. Igeyorhm has her lights off, but it makes no difference: the carpet is bathed in rippling illuminations from the rows of empty memory crystals lined up on every table, waiting for the names they will be assigned to contain. Despite yourself, you look for one of the ice refraction concepts she had been excitedly working upon, deep in research when the Final Days arrived -- but there is no sign that it had even existed. All of her own projects are gone.   
  
One of Mitron's fish is dead.  
  
Loghrif's workroom is dark. The aether in her loom is weak, in sore need of replenishing. Its ornate frame is crumbling into dust and withered roots, dehydrated without sufficient nourishment and sunlight.   
  
When you lift one of the threads, it begins to fray between your fingers.  
  
Disquieted, you slip out from Loghrif's chambers and find Emet-Selch exiting one of the libraries. Unlike your previous meetings, he is the one caught distracted this time; he blinks at you, owl-like in his confusion as he seems to struggle with comprehending your presence before him. After a moment, he closes the door behind him with careful precision, as if mechanically acting as if everything is normal might manifest that idea into reality as easily as any concept matrix.  
  
You try not to be affected by how unnerving it is to witness such a thing from a man you have respected for millennia. "Emet-Selch. I heard that some of the thespians from the Ouranos Theatron are working to finish a piece before they go. They will be displaying it this evening. Will you attend? It will be their last showing -- the troupe is all going together."   
  
_Going together_. A fine euphemism for a fresh course prepared for Zodiark's appetite: another sacrifice you could not prevent.  
  
When Emet-Selch is -- damningly -- silent, you prod again. "When was the last time you attended a performance?"  
  
He leans against the wall, folding his arms as if he might escape into a pretense of statuary. "I can't remember. _Everything_ has gone towards trying to repair the health of our star. Recently, I have been caught up in attempting to explain the principles of our cities to Lord Zodiark. He is displeased with our... smaller limitations," he adds, a wry, weary twist distorting his mouth.   
  
In all your years, you have never heard anyone speak of Ascian powers as trifling. An individual Asican might be less talented at creation than others -- but together, your people can and _do_ shape an entire star. "How great a scale does Zodiark intend to act upon next _?_ " Alarm flares through you in a jolt, jerking up your head. "And what will be the recompense then? Thrice as many of our lives, so that he may fill his pockets with them as a child does with stones?"  
  
An attempt at a smile goes awry on Emet-Selch's face, turning down at the corners before it can even succeed halfway. "If He wishes for thrice the amount, then He will have it. Whatever Lord Zodiark desires, He will have."  
  
The air tastes like ash on your tongue. Any true caretaker of the star should know better than to say such a thing; without boundaries, there can be no balance.  
  
You choose your next words carefully. "And if you said no?"  
  
"That is not possible, dear heart." The endearment is the same, but any warmth is smothered under exhaustion and discouragement. "We have asked Lord Zodiark if He would be willing to accept any other price, but He has not offered other terms yet. I cannot fault Him. Lord Zodiark needs aether in order to exist, after all. We cannot take His energies from Him and still expect our star to maintain its health. If you had only _been_ there at His creation -- but it is not too late," Emet-Selch adds, a spark of inspiration suddenly warming his eyes as he straightens up, grasping for a shred of hope. "Simply speak with Him, partake of His power, and seek to understand His will as we do. He was _very_ upset that you were not part of His summoning, you know. We can still remedy that. All you need do is to meet Him once. Once is all it will take -- "   
  
He reaches for your arms, and you back away hastily before he can touch you, as if the god's compulsion could ensnare you through skin contact alone. Clumsily, you disguise the motion as a restless stride for the windows on the other side of the hall. The glass is cool against your palms; each exhalation of your breath mists your own reflection, smearing your features further into a blank haze.  
  
Despite how you do -- and _don't_ \-- wish for Emet-Selch to notice your rejection, there must be some part about it that he heeds, for the man drops his hands rather than pursue you.  
  
"Join us," he pleads, and you fight back a shudder as you remember how much those same words had once been everything you had yearned to hear, back when you had first been selected for the Convocation. Even now, the instincts of your soul yearn for your community once more, to be safely part of the whole.   
  
But there is another intruder into your midst, a foreign influence that has embedded itself like a cancer disguised as healthy flesh, and you remind yourself that Emet-Selch's own desires are merely the inflection of another being's voice speaking through him -- a distant command that Emet-Selch carries which he is not even consciously aware of -- and you shake your head to refuse.

* * *

Zodiark brooks no compromise. He insists on control over every decision the Convocation makes; he demands their worship, their adoration, and by extension, the adoration of every Ascian that he allows to exist.  
  
He dictates, and through that, makes your companions into dictators as well.   
  
With the Convocation as his actors, Zodiark is invincible. He has no restraints -- no comrades to balance him, no others to tease out his better self through respectful debate. No one else to challenge him and ensure that all points are being considered, all illusions dispelled before they can fester. Laws do not bind him. He exists for the purpose of remaking reality itself.  
  
Zodiark. _Lord_ Zodiark. The god's name never seems to come without a title these days. You have reviewed his creation concept, hauling it out of the Anamnesis Anyder's most restricted records thanks to Hythlodaeus's aid and the authority which still has not been fully revoked from you. The mechanics of Zodiark's bargain are logical: a construct of such monumental power needs to have a proportionate means of supplying its own energy for daily operation. Lacking that, that construct would need to feast upon aether without cease, feeding and feeding until the very star is emptied out, deserted and lifeless forever.  
  
And yet -- by reading the formulas and calculating Zodiark's expenditures against the translation of what he has consumed -- you feel the unease of an equation unbalanced, leaking a steady loss on one side, and wonder if Venat does not have a point.   
  
In order to not drain the star of its vital essence, Zodiark needs supplemental souls as conduits to manage the Underworld and all its aether. To require less would be like starving someone of air. Elidibus's soul was used as a mooring point, and to provide a primary means of interaction. That much you can understand, albeit reluctantly. It was a design flaw that the Convocation had not been able to work around, and which had been one of your biggest protests.  
  
But no arcane construct of Ascian design has ever had its own soul on purpose. They have only gained them by accident, mishaps which have never been reliably reproduced. Nor have your lesser constructs required such energies in order to function. This is new territory, and you all have _far_ too little data to tame it with.  
  
Like a student first testing the rules of a playground with the intent of circumventing them, pushing each boundary before stretching it beyond its intended guidelines, Zodiark has already begun to hold your people hostage. As if the construct is bitter at not innately receiving a soul -- or jealous enough to want to seize them all -- he demands every spare one he can find. He eats your people by halves. There is no negotiation. Now, instead of Amaurot and its scholars, it is Zodiark who declares what direction the star's growth will take: his decisions _alone_ , untrained by the eons of careful study that any shaper would normally embark upon before they are allowed to change the world.   
  
At this rate, one day all the souls upon this star will be trapped within Zodiark's belly, his to toy with for all eternity.   
  
The rest of the Convocation does not stop him. The rest of the Convocation _cannot_. And, as the seed of your suspicions continues to germinate, working its roots through your brain more insidiously than any of Emet-Selch's stories -- you begin to wonder, treacherously, how terribly _convenient_ it must be for a star to have seized control over its own caretakers. To pick and choose the lives which dwell upon it, like a solitary child with a gameboard, brooking no protest or other voices as they fling pieces about at whim. It is dangerous to have only one voice in the lead; that is _why_ Amaurot has a Convocation of Fourteen, why concepts are reviewed for the common good and not a single creator's pride.  
  
But there is no Convocation of gods calmly discussing policy, no peers to determine what the communal good might entail. There is only Zodiark.  
  
_Only_ Zodiark.  
  
It is as perverse an idea as if one member of the Convocation had stood up and declared themselves to be the sole arbiter of law for the entire star. No single voice should ever be allowed such authority. It goes against everything your people have _ever_ believed in, everything Amaurot has celebrated and nurtured. When there are multiple points of debate, there is a chance for discussion. When there is discussion, there is dialogue. A deeper understanding, an awareness of options. Restrictions. Necessary limitations.  
  
And what if -- in all the whims of this single construct, whose directive was to save _itself_ , but not necessarily your people -- what if there comes a time, far in the future, when the star decides it needs no hands at all to shape it, apart from its own will?  
  
What happens when Zodiark grows bored with the Ascians, and desires something new?  
  
You can imagine, all too clearly, how this new god might choose to wash clean the face of the star, pursuing other hobbies and commanding his creatures to do the work of scouring it all away. How he might entertain himself in the chaos, delighting in the carnage like paint spattered upon a wall, uninterested in anything beyond the giddiness of the moment.  
  
Unable to disobey, the Convocation would be made into your people's executioners.  
  
You owe it to them -- to your peers, your companions, and your dearest friends and loved ones -- to be their enemy.

* * *

At first, you think to make strategic use of Venat's wild theories. On certain matters, the two of you agree. The calculations are off on Zodiark's concept; nothing has been _solved_ when it comes to the aetheric temperament of the star _._ Only the timing of your final doom has been changed.   
  
But, all too quickly, you realize that Venat is just as volatile as the Convocation. Their faction's fervor is a natural consequence of the scale being tipped too far in one direction. In order to achieve equilibrium once more, the answering counter-reaction must be equally fierce, and equally lost in its own extremism.  
  
Undiscouraged by your lack of joining their faction, Venat continues to present slivers of their rebellion to you over tea, conjuring cubes of sugar that they suspend in the air like elemental geometry. "The Sound overrode our ability to control raw creation," they acknowledge. "And so to supplant that, Zodiark's nature was that of Darkness, innately influencing aether with an astral polarity. To build a fish that can easily control an ocean, for it already swims within its tides." Thin fingers pluck one of the cubes out of a symmetrical array, and plop it in their cup. "Alas, our troubles did not stem from a lack of water, but too _much_. As we can plainly see, a construct of Light would be more efficient, able to stagnate any aether which grows out of control, as one might steer a flooding river through the use of pools and dams."  
  
"We _thought_ of that." The irritation comes out without meaning to -- only, that if the solution had been so simple, you would have said it yourself. Fought for it. "As well as the potential of using twelve incarnations, one for each element and alignment. The cost would have been too high, even compared to what Zodiark asks for now. And to empower Light to such a degree might have left us unable to use our powers to their fullest ever again -- helpless beneath shackles of stasis, begging our new master to allow them to loosen even once. Darkness was the only course that did not solve the disease without cutting off our own ability to continue addressing it."  
  
Your argument is a bitter one; the vibrations of your resentment shiver through the sugar cubes and skew their hues into ochre, icterine, cobalt blue. Venat pauses to hear it, fingers crooked around the handle of their teacup.   
  
"This star was nearly lost once due to minds being affected outside of their control. For our own safety, Azem, we _dare_ not allow that same manipulation to occur a second time. And the Convocation is -- _entranced_ is the only word for it." Pausing long enough to perform a deliberate sip of their tea, Venat lets the accusation settle before needling further. "Not, hmm... not in their _usual_ senses."  
  
You catch the turning of their mask towards you in a pointed stare, daring you to deny that you are under the same influence, as if you will hastily summon up wads of proof in defense of your sanity. Their coterie is not the only one who has made such remarks. Others have sensed the strangeness about the Convocation as well; they can sense the foreign element which is undoing them, making them _un-Amaurotine_ , and therefore unable to provide appropriate guidance to your race.  
  
You ignore Venat's expectant silence, and direct your scowl into your cup.   
  
Venat breezes onwards. "If it costs our people to keep this star alive, truly _alive_ , Azem, would you not make that sacrifice? Is that not what we are _all_ taught to be ready for?" Eagerly, they lean forward, sleeves whispering over the pristine surface of the table. "If we -- as caretakers -- allow the star to die upon our watch because of our pride in ourselves, our _unwillingness_ to do what is necessary, how can we call ourselves fit for the title? Is the purpose of our work to preserve _ourselves_ , or all the lives upon our star? We all wish the same thing, Azem," they coax, their voice smooth and conspiratorial. " _Life_."  
  
They are pretty words. They could -- and still do -- dwell in the mouths of the Convocation, with equal fervor.   
  
" _None_ of you are thinking clearly," you reply, stripped of all eloquence by disgust. The tea is sweet with honey and spices. A petal eddies at the bottom of your cup. "Tell me: by your own confession, Venat, you say that using Zodiark will not save us. By that self-same logic, stopping him will not either. Have you no other depth to your plan?"  
  
For a moment, Venat's conviction wavers. They draw back in hesitation, mouth reversing into a frown, and you almost have them. You almost _have_ them.  
  
But then Venat slides back into the comfort of their own conclusions before you can drag them through a full course of doubt. They flick their hands up in a gesture of dismay. "And what other alternative do we have, save to _try_? Each moment of inaction marks another soul to be supped upon. So tell me, Azem: do _you_ have a cure? Can you present it for us to follow?"  
  
The answer is obvious. You would not be here speaking with Venat if you did. _None_ of you would be in this situation if only you had been clever enough to stop it _first_.  
  
As you remain silent, your anger turning to shame, Venat continues, stirring their tea blithely. "If you were given a pair of scales, Azem, and told to weigh the fate of this star on one side and your own fate on the other, what would you choose? Any Amaurotine knows the answer. Our kin across the waters and in other cities would agree." Their spoon chimes against the rim of their cup as they tap it twice, shedding caramel-colored drops back into their tea. "We _must_ allow life to move forward on our star, and allow no further exchanges -- even should it mean that our people's souls will be held forever within Zodiark. If the Convocation were in their right minds now, they would remember this principle. And yet they have been taken, _possessed_ by this new god who chooses only His narrow vision, preferring His own well-being over the health of everything else that might yet exist. Three-quarters of our people now have given their lives willingly for this. How can we allow that sacrifice to empower a being which stands against everything we have _ever_ believed in?"  
  
At last, you have a point to defend, as fragile as it may be. "Willingly, Venat. They chose _willingly_. You give them no time now to consent to this new Umbral solution of yours -- and I suspect I know the reason why. I will not aid you, if you should fall victim to the same methods as those you decry."  
  
Caught in their own logic, Venat lets go of their spoon. They stand, erasing the remaining sugar cubes with a wave of their hand. Aether glitters in the wake of their fingers, tumbling into dust that vanishes before it strikes the table.  
  
"When this star is barren and empty of all save the few creatures which Zodiark chooses to entertain Himself with," they tell you, their voice as low and harsh as the shudder of ripping cloth, "then try and see if you can still convince yourself that you made the right decision in the end."

* * *

You spoke bravely to Venat; there was no hesitation in backing your convictions. Your beliefs were worthy of being defended. You will not reduce yourself by downplaying them in turn.  
  
But, in equal truth, you _are_ a coward. As flawed and dangerous as their solutions may be, the Convocation and Venat have at least both offered one. They have staked their convictions and their lives -- along with the lives of their loved ones, of everyone and everything precious to them -- on the chance that taking action may at least bring them closer to a permanent solution.   
  
You have only given inaction to the world, and not even immortals can wait forever.  
  
When you walk through the Convocation's central offices this time, all the rooms are dark. Emet-Selch has not sought you out in many suns. You do not wish to search for him by intruding upon his Bureau; Amaurot has more than enough to worry about without the gossip your presence would stir. You are a spectre haunting your own life, a soul that has lost its home. The body you reside in now is a shallow remnant, a castoff aether-shell from some legendary creature known as _Azem_ , Traveler of a once-beautiful star.  
  
You wonder if Emet-Selch will write stories about you too, once this is over.  
  
This time, you go to find him instead.  
  
The man's studies are quiet. He is absent from any of the communal workrooms. By the time you finally track him down, you have descended all the way to the underlibraries, set aside for scholars who might be in need of temporary working space between committee meetings and presentations. All of them are abandoned now. There are not enough researchers left alive to need them.   
  
Emet-Selch is tucked away at one of the furthest desks from the door, staring dully down at a report without moving to flick through its contents. He stirs when he hears the staccato of your footsteps approach, one hand moving to cover the top of the report before he gives up on that as well, and lets his fingers slide away.  
  
"Elidibus has returned." The halo of the crystal lights overhead paints a melting crown across his hair. "Will you not go see him, Azem?"  
  
The spasmodic shake of your head betrays more of your reluctance than you would have liked. Everyone in Amaurot has been speaking of the Emissary's reconstruction. Another miracle of Zodiark's -- _Lord_ Zodiark's -- mercy. Those who accept the god shout all the louder. Those who do not point to Elidibus as proof that the construct has already long overstepped his intended purpose.   
  
As for yourself, you have steadfastly avoided Elidibus all this while. You are too afraid to look into his eyes, and see what might be looking back.  
  
The toll of Zodiark's service has affected all the Convocation, Emet-Selch included. He looks thinner than before, his shoulders in a perpetual hunch. The color is dim in his face. His soul whispers weakly in the scaffolding of his bones, infected with so much Darkness that you can barely see its former vibrancy. He is a vase dipped for a second coat of glaze, left to drip wet upon a shelf as all his finer details are lost beneath a gritty ooze that seeps down like silt and mud.  
  
He has barely enough energy to pull his eyes up to you as you move closer, leaning your hip against his desk. "Why do you resist, Azem?" Even his voice is too resigned to argue, though he tries to rally himself back to the fight. "We debate to find a better harmony, but _always_ for the purpose of working together, serving as one. Once both sides have presented their viewpoints, there must always be an agreement, even if it is to peaceably revisit the issue later."   
  
Unaccountably, he tenses there, falling silent nearly mid-sentence. His head cocks, as if he can hear a different voice in the room -- a whisper beyond even the distant rush of the Underworld. When the man finally rolls his gaze back towards you, there is a different intonation to his frown: an unsettling, impersonal degree of focus, as if you have become a problem to solve rather than a comrade to speak to. "It is folly to reject suggestions without offering another path forward -- such stubbornness only destroys a future, rather than builds one. You _know_ this, Azem. Even having left your seat, you are still one of _us_... are you not?"  
  
The single, final emphasis in his voice is as heavy as a glacier settling against the back of your neck, each melting trickle tracing down the exposed bones of your spine.   
  
Emet-Selch is an Amaurotine, just like you. He protects his people, just as you do. As does Venat. All of you are equally driven to aid your kin; it has only ever been a matter of the best way to achieve it.  
  
But if things have changed so much -- if this Zodiark has begun to draw lines between _his_ Ascians and those who are not -- then matters have already devolved too far. The standard is a logic puzzle meant to be mastered in childhood, one of the very first lessons in community that every Amaurotine studies as a key foundation for the rest.   
  
It is easy to claim that you always act benevolently towards other people, if the list of what you consider a _person_ is very short indeed.  
  
You come around the desk, stalking towards Emet-Selch with heavy, deliberate steps. He lifts his hand helplessly at your approach; whatever expression you bear upon your face warns him away from touching you directly, only plucking at your sleeve like a desperate supplicant.   
  
You ignore it -- all the pleas, all the risk -- and lean in towards him, angry as you have never been with any of your kin, angry at this _thing_ that is destroying them without their ability to fight back. With one hand, you reach out and paint your thumb across his forehead, drawing the first streak of his sigil though you leave no mark behind.   
  
"I am the chosen dissenter, Emet-Selch," you whisper, enunciating each syllable. His breathing is harsh as he stares up at you, impaled by your stare. " _I am still dissenting_."

* * *

That night, as you lie awake and watch errant tides of aether curl along your ceiling, you find yourself drawn to one last, unwilling theory:  
  
The Sound which had first brought ruin to your people had come from the star itself. Like a birthing cry. A nascent stirring, like the shriek of a cloudkin which lacked the strength to break its own eggshell, and so howled its wrath instead in a demand for aid to come.  
  
It had been a scream, horrible and absolute. It had been a reverberation like an eon's worth of the world's self-loathing. That noise had been the start of it all. It had not ended until a new god had arrived, in a form which could dominate the previous caretakers utterly.   
  
Who better to create a disaster -- after all -- than the very star itself.  
  
Zodiark -- manifesting with whichever energies he has been harnessed to channel, whatever nature the construct has inherited as fuel for his life -- might have already sought to end your people once before.

* * *

You are running out of chances to sway both sides peaceably. You tell yourself that, but you know: no matter how many arguments you incite, it will never be enough. In all of eternity, it is not the Convocation you must convince. It is not even Venat. _Zodiark_ is your true opponent, puppeting your loved ones, burrowing into your entire race.   
  
Venat would have the ideals of your people survive, at the expense of their lives. The Convocation would have the reverse. They are both wrong, they are _all_ wrong, and even now you still have no way of finding a compromise between the two. You need time. You have always needed more time, but it has been others who have paid the cost for you.  
  
There must be a way for both sides to survive. Light and Darkness, energy and inertia -- they are forces of equal threat, in the end. Neither force can be allowed to completely triumph over the other; each would own your people, altering them for their own agendas. The Capitol underneath Zodiark's rule is already becoming a realm of polarities, divided between those who worship him, and those who are no longer true citizens of Amaurot.   
  
But the younger races have no part in that yet.  
  
If your people are already in thrall to Zodiark's plans, then you must look to the other lives upon your star to help free Amaurot. They stand outside of Zodiark's sphere, too weak by his estimation to be used as anything other than fodder. The Convocation has always underestimated them; Zodiark will inherit that bias. _They_ can be your agents of change -- and you cannot afford to lose a single one of their souls, either.  
  
From your window, you can see the doors of the Bureau, propped open to allow more volunteers to come and register. As you watch another group of Amaurotines disappear inside, adding their names to the list of Zodiark's next sacrifice, you finally know what it is you must give your people in order to save them from ruin: you must give them another side in the debate.

* * *

When you leave the central administrative building for the last time, it is easy to close your offices. Harder to decide what to bring. You cannot bear to unmake the furnishings, but it would be irresponsible to leave them behind. The Convocation's gifts are more than material. They are creations that each of your peers bequeathed to you as a sign of their faith in your partnership together. You came to these rooms when they were breathless with potential, waiting for you to leave your mark upon them. To reverse that work now feels like a rejection on the deepest, most personal level: to not only abandon the seat of Azem, but also the Convocation's bond.  
  
But it is impossible to lug all your possessions around with you on your journey, and that is the heart of it: you cannot carry them with you, on your back or in your pockets, in your arms or cradled in your fingers. You cannot carry them with you. Not into the uncertainty of looking for other options, hoping for better terms. Your Convocation peers have invested themselves in the solution they have found so far, and you must respect their compromised minds even as you must respect their beautiful, breathtaking intelligences by providing them with an alternative to what they have convinced themselves is an absolute ultimatum.  
  
It is not Ascian, to foster only a single point in a discussion.   
  
Zodiark -- despite his origins -- is not Ascian either. He is something else entirely, and he is making your people into new tools that belong to his rules alone.  
  
Mitron's fishes shimmer as they are dissolved -- thousands of generations descended from the original template -- and are reinscribed as a chemical pattern which swims endlessly within a globe no bigger than your thumb. Emmerololth's elemental slices melt and reform into icicles of sparkling color, compressed into single points of light. Loghrif's blanket unravels into its individual strands and then unspools further into fibers, like a vast oak curling back into an acorn shell. Each conjuration makes the translation safely back into raw aether, and you condense them down into containment orbs: tiny crystal spheres that float in your wake, each radiant with their individual maker's wish.  
  
When all the Convocation's gifts are unmade, you pause. Only twelve shards hang in the air, chiming softly with the whispers of their creators. You never received a present from Emet-Selch to grace your workroom -- not a physical one. Only words had been offered to you, tales which had contained equal amounts of hope and warning. In lieu of a physical object bounded by finite measurements, Emet-Selch provided you with a trail to follow on so many evenings as you fumbled your way through your new role, all the way to where you find yourself now.  
  
He has given you nothing tangible, so you weave something new in his stead.  
  
Your office was barren when you earned it. You return it to that same state now: not as an insult, but as a vow. This blankness is your declaration. You may have no perfect answer yet for your people's troubles -- but here, there is room to write one. Like Emet-Selch's sphere, your rooms contain the endless infinity of every possibility that the future has yet to bring.  
  
You place the string around your neck -- adorned with thirteen gleaming, glittering stars -- and leave the gift of your promise behind.  
  



End file.
